Paparazzi
by tiny.little.robots
Summary: Athrun Zala is a tabloid photographer, making his money from taking candid photos of celebrities and selling them off to the tabloid magazines. But when an old flame, a 'rags to riches' famous celebrity, comes back to town, it pressures him to re-evaluate his lifestyle and hers.
1. Oh, Monroe

**A/N: **Wow, it's been quite a while since I wrote fanfiction! This was intially going to be a one shot, but now it's going to be around 5-8 chapters long. I had this idea a while ago, and had written the first part at that time and I just happened to gain the motivation to finish the first chapter. I'm aiming to have weekly to biweekly updates, so if you stick around that'd be awesome.

* * *

**Paparazzi **

**Chapter I: Oh, Monroe**

He bustles into his condo like a ghost amidst the waking hours of the morning. His dull jade eyes are half hidden by the folds of his eyelids and are perfectly framed by the shadows under them.

As the sun rises, the eerie orange glow streams through the glass panes and spreads across his face. It reveals his oily frazzled blue hair and the 5 o clock shadow that he's been sporting for that entire week. His appearance is of normalcy to anyone who joins this lonesome, tireless business he is trapped in.

With a quiet thud and a click, his door is shut and locked.

He lazily tries to walk over to his desk only to find himself staggering because of the jolting ache swelling across his left leg. As he staggers to sit down in his swivel chair he promptly pulls the strap from his neck and lays his professional D-SLR camera down onto his marble desk. He half-heartedly detaches the lenses and the additional flash equipment remembering that he forgot to do so in Dearka's van.

He briskly pulls up his left pant leg and groans, "Damn," after witnessing the sight of a large irksome purple bruise on his shin. He pulls down his pant leg recalling the incident that happened in the early morning where the longsome night was still present.

It was so senseless, the familiar meager shoving and kicking he was caught in, these violent actions stemming from the desire to make a living off of destroying someone else's privacy. He recalls the middle age man who undoubtedly and relentlessly kicked him for being in the way of his shot of Lacus Clyne (the young pop star who recently announced her engagement to the prestigious actor, Kira Yamato).Well, he couldn't necessarily blame the middle aged man for his actions, perhaps he has a family back at home to feed, unlike himself.

With a flick of his computer mouse his wide computer screen is brought to life. The screen is lit up so brightly that it causes his exhausted eyes to squint but as they adjust to the sudden brightness his eyes soften at the sight of an image, amongst many, left open on the screen.

There she was...an angel in disguise, an angel who has had her wings ripped off of her back the moment she threw herself into the hellfire of Hollywood.

She had been comfortably sitting on his leather couch with her bare legs narrowly sprawled across the length of it. An oversized red shirt was perched atop of her small torso while her arms reached out towards the camera. She was caught in the middle of laughter, her mouth ajar with her teeth fully exposed by her gleeful smile. Her piercing gold eyes twinkled like burning ashes as they looked above the camera with joyous amusement.

As he stares at the image, he allows his lips to evolve into a smile he rarely shows. One glance at her euphoria causes his stomach to swirl in temporary bliss, only to be replaced by an aching sense of sadness.

* * *

"Athrun...," she sang from the couch, her voice had a touch of impatience but some sort of playfulness in it. "Don't tell me you're whipping out your camera again."

He laughed, while he diligently cleansed the lenses. He then walked over to the couch right behind her, with a smile still bracing his face. "You are beautiful, Cagalli. But that's probably something you've heard before." He bent over and gently placed a kiss on her forehead, unaware of the shameful blush creeping on her cheeks.

"You really think so?" she asked, her voice was enveloped with a sense of far off insecurity.

Her unusual vulnerability amused him. "I tell you everyday of the week. You're a lot more than picture perfect."

She rolled her eyes, and began to fiddle with the ends of her short blonde hair. She scrutinized the tips of her hair, fanning it slowly in front of her face, as if in search of spilt ends that needed trimming.

"Hey, I'm being honest, you-"

"-I think I'm going to start growing my hair out."

"Huh?" The sudden comment surprised him so much that he put a halt to cleansing his lenses. "I thought you said long hair makes you feel like you're getting swaddled by cobwebs."

Cagalli got up and hastily pulled on a pair of black chinos. "I dunno, I kind of wanna try something new y'know? I'm tired of the same crap." Her fingers rapidly buttoned up her collared dress shirt. She stopped and glanced at the opposite direction from Athrun.

"Changes are good," she muttered to herself quietly and then continued on with her buttoning.

Athrun only shrugged in response, unaware that her statement was only for herself. "Changes could be bad though."

"Changes can be bad. Especially when you don't know when the fuck we're going to get kicked out of this apartment." She had tried to sound passive, but Athrun could hear the anger brewing in her voice.

Frowning, he asked, "What are you trying to say?"

"Athrun," sounding breathless she replied, "Do you have any clients...?"

"O-of course I do!" With trembling hands he placed his precious camera onto the coffee table, and then he stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jeans. "...What makes you think I don't Cagalli?"

The question steadily clung into the air. The tension between them was rising so quickly as if it were a high wave of water ready to crash down any moment. This seemed to be a question of faith, of her faith in him. But neither of them realized it.

She paused as though she was looking for the right words but she failed. Instead a yell came out, "Because I know when you're lying, Athrun!"

Athrun felt an acidic burning in his throat.

His jaw clenched.

He edged closer to her, a solemn grimace etched his face. "Do you even _know _how hard it is to find clients these days, Cagalli? There are so many photographers around in this city. I'm trying my best to start up a business here."

"Then be practical for once!" Cagalli was already putting on her high heels, making her way to the door while at the same time avoiding his eyes.

"Practical? You're the one who convinced me that I had a fucking chance with photography!"

"Just-just shut up Athrun. I'm going to be late for work."

"Okay, go to your workplace, hopefully your customers give you a huge tip for having such a practical job."

"Goddammit Athrun! Fuck off." She opened the door and stepped out. "Atleast I have a stable income. What about you?"

He ignored her. "Have a good night at work."

She shot a glare at him.

And that's when he noticed something different... a _change. _

Her eyelashes were thick. Each individual lash looked like spider legs while her lids contained an ashy brown shadow that lightly shimmered like smashed up crystals. Her lips... they were tainted with the colour of mauve pink. Due to this, her eyes looked brighter and her lips looked puckered despite the twist of resentment in her features.

"Are you wearing makeup?"

She stopped and stared at him, taking notice of the initial look of disbelief on his face.

Cagalli responded by shutting the door on him.

* * *

The knocking of knuckles against aluminum blends in with the ringing of a doorbell. At times the rhythm is in unison while other times it focuses on one sound, as though it were a broken pendulum swinging and remaining on one side of sound and then the other.

Knock, knock, knock. The bone joints of that fist hit harder, gradually becoming even more demanding of attention. It reminded him of relentless drumming that could easily be ignored if one were able to feign sleep.

"_Athrun... I don't know what to say." _

Ding dong, ding dong. Its noise is a relief, because the sound never heightens unlike the banging on the door.

_"Just leave. Please." _

If anything, the noise is being tossed around between his brief moments of consciousness and his longer moments of drowsy sleep.

"OPEN THE DOOR ATHRUN! C'MON OPEN UP!"

He tries to peer open his eyes but Athrun's eyelids feel as though they have been sewn shut. The heaviness of his lids takes on a weight on his sight. Maybe the noise would disappear if he kept his eyes closed.

"WAKE UP MAN!"

Rapid loud thuds and the annoying ringing erupt in fury together, like a sandstorm carrying the remnants of a broken house. The mixture of sound becomes ear-splitting.

"Agh...coming...don't break my door..." he groans, his own voice is muffled on the sleeve of his shirt. Wiping his eyes, he feels the crustiness of what kept his eyelids kissing.

Opening them, his hazy gaze falls upon the pitch black screen of the computer.

He groggily stands up from his chair, wiping his eyes even further. A pain crawls up his spine.

"Shit," he mumbles to himself, catching the putrid scent of his breath. He thinks to himself that he should have dragged himself to bed, he didn't realize how exhausted he was the night prior but his backache is his consequence.

"Dearka," he calls out, noticing how raspy his voice is. "Wait a couple more minutes, I gotta brush my teeth and shower."

"Oh hell no! I've been tryna bust open your door for the last fifteen minutes."

"Wait a bit."

"No damn way!"

Sighing, with much reluctance he approaches the door and unlocks it. Opening it, he sees Dearka's scowl emerge into a cocky grin.

"What do you want, Elsman?"

Dearka puts up his hands in surrender and waves them a bit, the cocky smile is still plastered on his lips. "I come baring good news."

"What is it...?"

"Your favourite celebrity's back in town."


	2. She's No Audrey Hepburn

**A/N:** Ah, finally I finished this chapter. It took longer than I expected. Through the editing process, I removed a character, I found that he didn't really serve a purpose to this chapter and forcing this character in it rendered me into making some useless conversations. So bam bam, I removed Nicol. **  
**

Some comments on this chapter, a 'viewfinder' is the small square thing you peer into to see how the photo is going to look before you take a snapshot. Lots of people don't use it anymore because they have the digital screen.

Big thanks to the reviewers of the first chapter, and the followers and to anyone who read it!

* * *

**Paparazzi**

**Chapter II: She's No Audrey Hepburn**

Athrun stares down Dearka with an undoubtedly apathetic expression. His eyes hint at boredom and the stark greyness beneath his eyes cast on a dead shadow.

The grin on Dearka's face becomes strained. An eyebrow twitches for a second.

"I don't have a favourite celebrity. They're all shitheads," the latter finally speaks, each word sounds like a declaration of demise.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there lone wolf. You don't even know who I'm talking about, do you?"

"I don't," he says curtly, refusing to acknowledge it.

Dearka rubs his nose. "Shit I forgot her name... Caga..." He looks up at the ceiling and begins to snap his fingers. "Caga...Cagallay? No, wait, that's not it. Cagalli...Cagalli Yula Aiman!" Dearka points an index finger at Athrun and winks. "Cagalli Yula Aiman. You sir, Mr. Legendary Loner, have contributed to most of those magazine photos of her and the online ones as well. Thus, she is your favourite celebrity."

His voice is quiet. "That doesn't mean I have a favourite celebrity, Dearka... she's just easier to take photos of."

"Yeah, yeah! She's going to be in the Archangel District today, I'm sure you don't want to miss that, Athrun!"

Athrun's face remains stoic. "There's daylight, I only take photos at night... and I need sleep."

Dearka laughs, it's loud and full of life. "Isn't _that_ obvious?" He begins to pull his phone out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

With a discerning smile, he shoves his phone in Athrun's face. The screen is just centimetres away from hitting his nose.

Athrun eyes meet the image on the screen. His mouth slightly opens.

He takes a step back, feeling his stomach ache with gushes of regretful desire.

Dearka smile broadens. "I'll be waiting by the van outside. If you don't come down in fifteen minutes, I'm driving away."

"Screw you."

Dearka bows his head and salutes Athrun with two fingers. He starts to walk away with a bounce in his step.

Before Athrun could even close his door, he hears Dearka's cheery voice call out, "You took the picture! Not me!"

* * *

"I am currently sitting on a bench at the old district of Archangel. This is where celebrities randomly make appearances. This is just located East of Hollywood, and it only takes 45 minutes to reach this area. The reason why we are at the Archangel District is because Cagalli Yula Aiman is rumoured to be temporarily residing there for unknown reasons. _However, _there have been rumours of her having a rocky relationship with Miguel Aiman, aka lead guitarist of the famous band 'Le Creuset'."

Athrun tries his best to suppress the urge to scoff at Miriallia. She's sitting beside him, speaking intensely into her red recording device as though she is some sort of professional newscaster. _She takes her job way too seriously, _he thinks to himself, almost shaking his head. If there is anything Athrun hated more than the paparazzi, it is definitely the celebrity gossip bloggers. They appear to believe that their writing is more sacred than journalistic accounts of wars and government deception. _And to think that these bloggers believe they're decent journalists... _

"She is fed up with Miguel's cheating ways and _apparently,_ he was seen with a model during London's fashion week. _Has_ he been cheating on her?"

"That's complete bullshit, Miriallia," Dearka says with his arms folded. "It's so obvious she's been sleeping with Miguel Aiman's band mates."

"Dearka stop ruining my recording! And for the record, I don't believe that Cagalli Yula Aiman is cheating on Miguel Aiman."

"Oh, and how do you know that?" he questioned with smug eyes.

"Because I know her."

Dearka mockingly chuckled. "No you don't!"

"I have a picture with her and we've breathed the same air, therefore I know her. She's super sweet and kind and she would never ever cheat on anyone. She even remembered my name the second time I met her."

At those words, Athrun feels a sting in his chest. He tries to brush off the feeling but it remains, keeping the blood in his chest cold. There is nothing he could say to stop their tedious bickering, so he observes the Archangel District, their conversation fading away slowly from his ears.

He notices that the buildings in the Archangel District hold a nostalgic air of the 1950s. Their bricks are washed out of vibrancy but the architecture of the windows frames are precisely curved to look like a semi-circle. Flowers are located right beneath the windows, blooming with vivacious colours that are distinguishable against the worn out bricks that are covered with emerald vines.

Essentially, Archangel District is only made up of two long strips of buildings. On each side, the structures contain clothing boutiques, hair salons, coffee shops and restaurants that are only open for the prestigious... the people who have money.

Archangel District was established in the 1940s and due to the area's reminiscent value, it began to blossom with multiple businesses that were able to rent the property. It didn't take long for the 'FOR LEASE' signs to show up when businesses couldn't pay their rent. It paved way for richer companies to replace them with their aristocratic reputation.

Famous people and rich teenagers would lounge around the district. While the famous go to this place for leisure time, rich teens go to feel like they are the famous. Wherever famous people are, the rich would follow and so would the paparazzi. The paparazzi would swarm the area, scattered in groups with their professional cameras in hand.

Today is no exception. Athrun could see different paparazzi groups huddling like ants in corners, just standing there, waiting like animalistic hunters.

"She's a humanitarian! She helps African kids and animals!" He hears Miriallia yell.

"So what, that doesn't mean she can't be sleeping around! What you do doesn't define who you are."

Athrun finds Dearka's statement contradictory, but he doesn't disrupt the banter.

"Oh God, Dearka, you are _so_ annoying."

"Hey, I'm a paparazzo not a fan girl," he says, smirking at his victory. He turns to Athrun. "Aye, hawk eyes, are you scanning the area?"

"Yeah," Athrun mumbles. He pulls up his grey hood and puts a hand on his satchel which contained his DSLR camera. "Let's get going guys."

As he walks he realizes that only Dearka is at his side, while Miriallia is trailing behind them. It seems to be that she purposely allowed herself to lag behind like a follower. Athrun thinks to himself that Miriallia has always acted strange around him, her conversations with him are often short and distant. He wonders whether or not she caught on to his disregard towards her occupation of being a professional gossiper.

"So..." Dearka starts, "that photo..."

"What about it?"

He is grinning now. "I had a feeling it would convince you to come."

Athrun doesn't say anything and continues walking straight on the side walk. His vision is shrouded by the structures, looking for the right place where he may find their prey. Once he can catch a glimpse, he can easily capture her behind his lenses.

"That photo was everywhere! Magazine covers, blogs..."

"I posted it on my blog too," Miriallia adds in, the slight tremor in her voice gave away her excitement. "Athrun, you're actually amazing. Your photos of Cagalli Yula Aiman make her look like an angel."

Dearka dreamily sighs. "God, if only it were me who sold that photo...I would have charged more... and I would have been rich! You sold it for seven thousand dollars, right?"

"Yeah," Athrun says with a voice devoid of emotion.

It was a miracle, or by chance, although he would never call it that, because it would deem him lucky, when clearly he is not.

* * *

About a year after Athrun and Cagalli parted, Athrun had began to find comfort in visiting beaches. His sole motivation to get out of bed was to watch the sun rise bring upon a new day. He felt that it was better to go early in the morning before the world was awake so he can share a moment with nature and himself. Solitude was something that he can only accept during the crack of dawn, but after the sunlight shrouded the world, the harmful loneliness would call him backwards.

The solitude allowed him to think honestly.

_Are you happy? _

It was a question that leapt inside his mind constantly when he was by the shore. It was a question that wasn't just for him, but for her.

Sometimes the waves would tell him, other times it was the gritty feeling of the sand.

_No_ they told him. _No. No. No. _

It was all in his head.

Whenever that thought would occur to him, he would bring his camera up to his face, and peer inside the square viewfinder, with his other hand adjusting the 35 mm lenses he used for the ever changing sky.

He would wait for the grey to vanish into a soft wash of warm colours. When it did... it always made him smile and forge a new memory of the sky.

This particular day was different though. He had not snapped a photo of the sky that day.

She was there with him, watching the same wash of colours blend into the sky, reclaiming the old and reclaiming the new.

He did not notice her at first.

But the faint sound of her music playing prompted him to ignore the sky.

The first thought that came to mind, was _God, that song is annoying. _

It was that girl with the drowsy and soft voice, drawling on about forsaken summer romances and the desperation for losing solitude. Her voice echoed and gracefully plagued the ghostly string instruments. But the song sounded so rustled, as though it were being played through a crappy radio. Athrun could no longer focus on the sky anymore. He turned his head to the direction of sound, to figure out what the hell broke him out of his lamenting peace.

Then he saw her.

Staring up, eyes gentle, bare faced, hair soaring, and a small thoughtful smile spread across her lips.

She was a large distance away from him. Standing all alone with a portable radio, while looking up at daybreak, probably thinking it looked like a painting with its violet churns and tingeing crimsons.

_Cagalli, you're so silly. Life doesn't imitate art._

Then she started to glow like a seraph as her blonde hair became a smooth sliver of gold. Her smile was intoxicating.

Seeing her like that made him forget what she had become.

Athrun quickly brought up his camera, eye through the viewfinder, seeing her differently behind his lenses. He slowly moved closer to her, sand swirled under his toes, while the wind whistled delicately against the back of his neck.

The moment was shot.

Just one click and then he left while the crashes of waves were still calm and the sky was still shifting.

He did not care if she noticed him or not.

* * *

Creeping up on his shoulder, Dearka whispers loudly in Athrun's hood covered ear, "Do you ever masturbate to her photos?"

When Athrun doesn't answer, Dearka pulls down his hood.

"Don't do that." He pulls it back up. "And don't ask me dumb questions like that."

Dearka bellows out with laughter when he sees the white palette of Athrun's face turn to red. "I'm just screwing with you. You should really lighten the hell up!"

"I'll lighten up after this whole ordeal is over," Athrun grumbles.

"Ordeal?"

"Yes."

"Guys...?"

Dearka and Athrun both turn their heads to Miriallia. Her eye brows are scrunched together in agitation. "Does anyone know where Cagalli Yula Aiman might be?"

"She's most likely staying at the hotel over there." Athrun points to a small coffee shop. The bricks of the shop are painted in a pristine black, and the large square window frames from the three floors of the place are as white as milk. Amongst the first floor, the words _Espresso Soul _are etched above the wide glass doors in intricate white font.

"That's a coffee shop, Athrun," Dearka says stifling a chuckle with his hand. "Seems like you're slipping."

"Actually, it's a coffee shop and hotel," Miriallia pipes in. "It's not a traditional hotel, it's on top of the coffee shop and rooms are around seven hundred dollars per night."

"You've got to be kidding me..."

"Nope. Apparently all the walls in the rooms are covered in art. Famous people art, like Andy Warhol and stuff! " Miriallia beams. "The place is actually huge inside! And the coffees all organic and they're imported from different countries. It's probably a gazillion times better than Starbucks."

"Cagalli does like coffee," Athrun mumbles, forgetting that the two of them are not aware that he knew her personally. Once he realizes this, he immediately states, "I read it in a magazine somewhere."

Miriallia smiles fondly at him. "You've read my blog, haven't you, Athrun?"

"Sure." Athrun suppresses another temptation to scoff at her.

Dearka blatantly coughs, "Fanboy."

"Let's just get a move on."

They start to become closer to the coffee shop and as they grow nearer, Athrun's thoughts teeter and totter towards regret and anticipation.

There's a weight on his chest that feels like a thousand coiled fists pressing him down. It's this nervousness that reaches from his chest and tickles up to his neck.

The feeling is not unusual.

It visits him every time he knows he will be in physical range of his past. This past revisited him in bouts of fooling him that the Cagalli he is about to see is the same Cagalli he used to share a bed with.

It's startling to Athrun, the way she still invokes repressed emotions in him. It makes him feel almost pathetic, but not wholly so.

_Screw it, _he thinks.

She doesn't see him behind the flashbulbs of those invasive cameras. It's been three long years, and she never sees his face. It blends in with the paparazzi like stretches of mixed paint on a canvas.

He finds that there is one problem with the current situation he is in.

The radiating heat from the sun glimmers down on him and the heat is nullified by the light breeze of spring. The sun in the sapphire sky is the perfect lighting condition for capturing photos. Yet the light knows how to expose a person who hides in the dark, or in the shadows of ill fallen victims to idol worship.

The problem is easily dismissible. Not once has she ever seen the man Athrun became behind the camera. She only had seen the past of this man.

When you begin to remember someone, their image of them that engrosses your head is from your last memory of them. When you see them often, the image changes gradually, but if it's been years, your last memory of that person is of a younger version of them selves. Athrun has seen her change, he has seen her morph into the famous and delicate young woman she is now. The image of her that engrosses his mind when he thinks of her is the one of her baring her slightly stained teeth at him in a smile, while her tresses gently touch her shoulders.

As he waits with the others, he briefly closes his eyes and imagines a younger Cagalli stepping out of the hotel coffee shop. He imagines her with a loose tank top and tight cargo pants tucked into combat boots. Doors close softly, as she struts out holding her half empty coffee cup in her hands.

Athrun blinks his eyes open when he hears the door of the coffee shop open.

"Oh my God, it's her!" He doesn't know who screams it. But all he sees are paparazzi men and women running towards the shop like a flock of zombies that found their prey.

He finds himself stranded on the spot meters away from where _she _is. He notices that Miriallia, and Dearka are already rushing forward shoving him out of the way with their shoulders.

Dearka turns his head around, and an all knowing look is upon his face. "Only someone as slow and steady as you can win the photo." He continues running.

Athrun steps forward, and walks. Each step makes his foot feel heavy. Unconsciously he feels with his fingers the hood masking his hair. _Good, it's still there. _

Click, click, click.

"Cagalli look over here, gorgeous!"

"Can you sign this for me?"

"I am one of your biggest fans."

"Is it true that you and Miguel are having problems?"

"How was your coffee?"

"You're even prettier in person!"

Moving closer, he hears all this. The words, the clicks, they all sound like a broken record player, busting out over used and rejected tunes.

From his vision, the crowd looks like there's about twenty of them. But he could be wrong.

He reaches the end of the crowd, looking like an outsider because he is not within it.

Athrun grabs his camera from his satchel and cautiously lifts the object up to his right eye, peering through the viewfinder and seeing the grey hair of a man in front of him. Cagalli is not in sight, not yet.

His fingers are placed on the 50 mm lenses, and he adjusts them, focusing in. Behind multiple shoulders, he catches a glimpse of the side of her face. Everything around her blurs as he adjusts the lenses again. Then someone's back covers his view of her.

Athrun heads into the crowd, camera protected by his arm like he is carrying a newborn. Absentmindedly he is pushing himself through the weight of people, feeling nothing of them.

"Hey! Fuck you man!"

It's easy to ignore insults from strangers. Just pretend it never happened. Pretend no one is in the crowd, and then it becomes easier to join, to pass through. _I will get my shot of her even in the fucking daylight._

He's nearing the front; a blanket of comforting serenity engulfs him as he feels like a ghost just crossing to the other side.

He could see the top of her head.

"You guys flatter me too much." Her voice is drenched with fake breeziness.

Before he knows it, he is at the front. The crowd behind him is muted in his mind. His camera has already risen to his face, concealing his identity.

He sees her entirely.

Her fitted black dress on her thin body is flowing beneath the waist and her shimmery hair is piled on top of her head in a classy up do.

Athrun couldn't even admire her beauty through the eyes of his lenses. He does not feel the same awe others would feel when they see her, the awe that overwhelmed him was her altering self, the barely recognizable person she seemed to be.

"Fuck you asshole!"

A pair of hands slaps both his wrists so hard that his gentle grip on his camera slackens and falls right out of his hands. He watches it descend face down, like a rock being tided down a waterfall. He braces himself for the earth shattering crack of the lenses.

However, it doesn't plummet to its death. It plummets into the small hands of... Cagalli.

She is bent down on the ground, her knees skid the cement. There are white scratches on those knobby knees of hers.

Cagalli's hands hold out the camera and she stares at it, flipping the camera so that the lenses are at her face.

"I'm sorry, sir but I think I scratched the lenses," she says, almost sounding remorseful for an inanimate object.

Athrun keeps his mouth closed. His heart is thundering and a wave of nausea goes over him. A panic in his body is ensuing. The feeling is so unfamiliar it makes him want to vomit.

She lifts herself up, still gazing at the camera. A frown is on her face. When she looks at him, the world seems to freeze and he becomes numb.

Cagalli's eyes bore into Athrun as if he is the only person standing in front of her. With her mouth slightly ajar, and his name scrawled on her tongue, she places the camera into his hands. Their fingers brush against each other causing a strange surge of coldness in both of their fingers.

"Thank you, Miss." The words are so unfitting and so strained with emotional discomfort.

"You're welcome, sir," she says quietly. Her eyes search his face, seemingly looking for truth that it is him.

Their eyes meet. They fixate on each others eyes; the vacancy is within both the green and ochre. She is the first to look away.

"I'm very sorry, sir."

Athrun thinks he hears a trace of sadness in her voice. But the thought disappears when she turns her body away from him.

She is momentarily silent amidst the clicks of camera and the voices of the paparazzi. Soft spoken words begin to fall gracefully from her pretty mouth as her hands continuously signed autographs. From time to time a smile would reappear on her face.

The look of her bleached teeth beneath her dark red lips are as contrasting as a black and white film.

He continues to stand there, watching, feeling her presence so close to his. He can not will himself to move away from her. The cold touch lingers on his hands, her apology imprints cruelly in his mind.

Athrun's eyes never leave her being until he brings his camera up to his eye again.

Behind scratched lenses, he snaps a photo of Cagalli's distressed smile.


	3. I Can't Be James Dean

**A/N: **There was one scene that pissed me off! I rewrote it twice and then cut it out and rewrote an entirely new scene. That scene took on a more humourous approach that's why I needed to change it, I didn't like it at all. But I like the new scene I wrote, it's tone is darker. I guess by the end of the chapter you'll see which scene I was talking about ;)

I hope you guys are liking Dearka's character, I find him fun to write, always gotta have the comic relief right?

Many thanks to the reviewers, the followers and the favouriters from the last chapter. I hope to see you all again for this chapter :)

(a little side note: for those who are unaware of what 'taking a hit' means, it means taking another smoke...) **  
**

* * *

**Paparazzi **

**Chapter III: I Can't Be James Dean**

Athrun's forehead is pressed hard against the dashboard of Dearka's rolling van, his fingers are trembling. The whiteness of his skin turns grey.

He screams, "Just give me a fucking cigarette, Elsman!"

Dearka roughly yanks down Athrun's hood. "What's gotten into you, man?! Are you star struck or something? 'Cause if you are, you're just acting like a dumbass lunatic! Or are you pissed off because –"

_I'm very sorry, sir. _

Those four words keep drilling themselves deep inside Athrun's head. The pain is continuously gnawing at him like a reopened wound. After three years, those were her only words to him? Her words mimicked those of a stranger, but the way those draining eyes stared at his face gave out a hint of vague recognition.

He puts a shaky hand to his mouth. Eyes are closed.

_I'm very sorry, sir. _

A laugh tears through his lips. The muffled laugh is vivacious but beneath the layers are maniacal pulses. His back quivers, as his other hand slaps onto the hand that stifles his mouth. He can't stop laughing, and he despises the very sound of it.

He sounds like he's being strangled by a noose that isn't his.

Athrun abruptly stops, breathing unevenly.

A cigarette hits him in the ear.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

He glances up, feeling the warm sweat on his forehead. A lighter strikes his nose. It lands on his thigh beside the fallen cigarette. His hands fumble to grab the items that are supposed to provide tranquility to his thoughts.

Athrun quickly places the cigarette between his open lips and holds onto the lighter tightly. Hands are no longer shaking.

Spinning the small wheel on the lighter, he hears it click and the flame appears. The orange glow ethereally reflects on his pallid fingertips. He brings the flame from the lighter to the end of the stick, and sees it burn amber with black smouldering the edges.

While he puts the lighter down, he sucks in the smoke and fluidly pulls the cigarette out. A puff of smoke is blown out of Athrun's mouth, mingling with the whitish blue wisps swaying out from the cigarette.

He takes another hit with his chest rising, he's inhaling the smoke fully, feeling it itch down his throat and into his lungs. Exhaling, the smoke makes it way up, warming him but scratching his throat. Athrun smothers a cough while the white wisps reappear in front of him. He gazes at it with calm eyes.

Two more hits.

And his body feels light, as though it is merging into the air.

Athrun's eyes go shut and her goddamn face appears.

The face with the distressed smile and soft skin... it morphs into a face that laughs raucously with lips that bare no trace of red stains. _Don't you look cool, Athrun? _

Eyes are now wide open. He feels something grasp at his chest.

"Is your psycho self feeling better now?" Dearka asks, while rolling down the window.

Athrun doesn't respond. He just watches the last strings of smoke evaporate into the air.

Dearka momentarily steals a nervous glance at him. The edge of his bottom lip is bit.

Athrun notices, but keeps himself silent. He stares out the window, trying to witness the colours of cars blending in one another speeding their ways through. Within the blurs, he sees a still image of himself on the window, a reflection of his face.

_You look like you died, and were brought back to life by some shitty scientist, _he thinks to himself. A self-directed smile creeps along the lines of his mouth. _I look like shit, and she saw that. While she looks like a doll, I look like shit. _He tries to repress a laugh but he's shaking again.

His mind flashes to those words, each letter excruciatingly fogging any sort of clarity that was present when he saw the grey wisps.

_I'm very sorry, sir. _

What kind of apology was that?

Was it one that was meant for the insufferable loneliness he felt?

Athrun wants to hit his head against the window to shatter it and feel the shards pierce through his brain.

Acknowledging the shakiness of his fingers, he snuffs the cigarette out the window.

Cigarettes don't work anymore, not for him at least.

He couldn't even keep himself calm. That caged enragement that squirms inside his chest makes him want to laugh at himself, at his own foolishness.

"Look Athrun," Dearka suddenly says with a small voice. "I know it's hard to contain your excitement of actually meeting your favourite star and all..."

Wrong.

When Athrun doesn't respond, Dearka continues, dragging on his concerning voice. "But sometimes you gotta chillax...and not act like a fuckin' psycho that makes his only friend shit his pants... I swear to god, if you start crying now because of Cagalay Yala Aimon or whatever her stupid name is, you gotta stop and think to yourself 'Why am I crying over some famous bitch that I don't even know on a personal level?'

They're just people who are rich and people like us get rich off of them getting rich. It's a whole friggin' ecosystem. But like an ecosystem, you don't get attached to a fish you're going to eat, you eat it without knowing it personally." He is babbling on words that don't string along coherently.

"What the hell are you talking about Dearka?"

"Hey! That's the simplest way I can explain it! I tried, but even a good photographer might not even have the brains."

"You're not a good photographer, Dearka."

"I was talking about you, dick wad." Dearka has a tiny grin on his face, as though he is hesitating to smile. "But anyways, that video of her being nice and picking up your camera is probably going to be all over the internet. I could already see it..."

He alters his voice to become lower, mimicking the forced professionalism of a news anchor. " 'Breaking news! ...while twenty people died in a highway incident, check out what the sweet Cagalay Yalu Imon girl did! This 'rags to riches' sensation was kind enough to pick up a paparazzo's camera. Of course she would do that! She used to be as poor as everyone else in the world! Now she's just spreading her kindness to everyone! Let's pay her even more, for just existing!" Dearka takes a hand off the steering wheel and pretends to hold an invisible mike towards Athrun. "Now, Mr. Athrun Zala, how did it feel to have this blonde beauty pick up your camera? Did you get to see her boobs?"

Athrun scoffs but decides to play along. "No, she scratched my lenses with her nails."

Dearka chuckles. "Already got you in a better mood, eh, buddy?"

"Yeah..." he reluctantly replies.

"There's one good thing about her saving your camera."

"And what's that?"

"All the dumbass photographers are gonna start dropping their cameras so that she'll pick it up and once their camera is damaged they won't have a chance at taking more pictures of her. Actually, maybe I should do that. Then get a boob shot of her with an extra camera while she bends down!" He wistfully sighs. "I smell big bucks already."

"Your schemes are crap, Dearka."

"A boy can dream." He stops the van in front of a condominium that towers over many other condos with its mirror-like windows. Its architecture looms with modern edge due to the straight and sharp angled design.

"Thanks for the ride Dearka," Athrun says, stepping out of the vehicle. His satchel slung over his shoulder.

As he is about to close the door Dearka tells him, "Flay Allster is rumoured to be hitting up some clubs tonight, Miriallia and I are going to meet up with some paparazzi people to track her down. You wanna come?"

Athrun shakes his head. "I've had enough of celebrities for today."

* * *

The glaring brightness of the afternoon sun is blocked by the sunburnt blinds of Athrun's windows. The half light reveals the murkiness of his inhabitancy, a thin layer of dust coats the TV, coffee table, and even the dining table.

He settles himself down on the couch, placing his satchel beside him. His slouching body feels heavier than before. He rubs his eyes, and then stares at the ceiling above him.

Athrun tries not to think of anything, he tries to keep his a mind blank slate. But the memory of her keeps replaying over and over again like seven minute film reel.

After three long years, she's finally encountered him.

He's been in hiding for so long, and the one time he decides to catch her in the light, he is instead captured by her vacant beauty.

She had acted so strange towards him. Her polite words and the way she carries herself is reminiscent of an old Hollywood beauty – one that is shy and elegantly graceful in the way her body moves and of the words produced.

He has seen her in interviews.

The language of her body is so foreign to him.

Even though she is already petite, she would make herself seem smaller, with her legs crossed, and her hands on her lap. Her voice would turn into resounding shyness and the refining smile she took with her always bounded fans into the realm of adoration.

Athrun recalls the interview she did with an online fashion magazine many months ago.

She had been sitting on a rouge couch, wearing a white chiffon dress that draped over her thighs like a sheer blanket. Cagalli's posture was perfect, her legs were crossed so delicately and her hands rested on her lap, not fiddling with anything.

"How did you meet the love of your life?"

"Miguel?" She lightly laughed, with her mouth concealed by a dainty hand. "I used to work at this restaurant and he would always be playing acoustic songs on his guitar. He'd be singing ballads –"

"Ballads for you?"

She smiles a tiny smile. "I guess you can say that. He used to approach me at the end of the night when we were closing up the restaurant. Miguel always started these charming conversations with me."

"That's adorable! How long have you been married for?"

"2 years... I've never been happier."

"I'm so happy for you!" The interviewer said with such energy. "How do you feel about Miguel going on tour with his band? Do you ever worry about groupies and stuff like that?"

The camera zoomed in on Cagalli's face then, expecting an emotional or heart wrenching answer.

Except her face did not change, it kept the facade of delicacy with that smile.

"No, I never worry... because I love him and he loves me."

Athrun had stopped watching the interview after that answer. He had felt his stomach tighten, and even thinking about that interview made those feelings return.

He grabs his DSLR from his bag, and turns it on.

The first image that surfaces is the medium close up shot of her face.

She is the focus of the image, as she usually is. Her eyes are shifted down, signing autographs in her hands. You can see the glimmer of sunlight on her hair, and the way her skin radiates against the light. The makeup is evident by the streak of dark red lipstick, and the long false lashes that fletch onto her real ones – it gives her eyes a bambi like quality. Underneath those lashes the ochre eyes are hiding.

Athrun stares at her distressed smile, and he notices the camera scratches that spawn over the image. The lines entrap her smile, like clear spider webs distorting the peace of life.

He is wondering what she was thinking at that time. He wonders whether or not nervousness bubbled up in her stomach or if she believed that he was make-belief. Maybe she convinced herself that he was just a figment of her imagination so that she could ease the emotions that might have come over her.

Maybe she felt nothing at all.

But what did he expect when she allowed those apologetic words to fall out her mouth? Did he want her to utter his name like a question?

He wants that. Just for her to acknowledge him as a person from her past.

* * *

He was trembling as the autumn winds carried themselves at him, rattling at his bones as though they were wind chimes.

A lit cigarette hung precariously between his fingers. Its smoke drifted into the air.

A younger Athrun stood outside a coffee shop, leaning against the wall beneath a dusty lamp. The rotted yellowness shone above his head, it was a weak light compared to the glow of the night's moon.

He huddled his hands together and blew his breath on them. The warmth faded away quickly, barely making a difference. "Damn cold," he muttered, pulling up the zipper of his leather jacket all the way to his neck, scraping at the skin.

With shaky hands, he took a long drag from the cigarette. The nerves that bellowed up from his stomach had threatened to paralyze his unspeaking mouth and body. Besides uncontrollably trembling and having a cigarette move to his lips, he was immobile.

_What the hell was I thinking? _

His insecure thoughts buckled at his throat and his eyes flitted back and forth, stinging with dryness. The starchiness of his tongue evaporated words that could have came out earlier.

_Why the hell did I feel risky today? _

He knew he would have lost nothing. He owned nothing. Apathy was his only acquaintance at that time. Athrun had easily detached the very existence of emotions days before – when he came to the realization that he would be alone. So why not do things on a whim? He wanted to feel the typical high that people his age felt.

"You're... you're a fucking asshole," he heard someone say to him. The voice possessed a husky quality that seemed to verge on the beginning of a cry.

He turned his head, and the door of the shop was open.

A girl with short hair stepped out, leaving the door to draw back to its frame. A bell rang when it closed fully.

She made her way over towards him, the bottoms of her combat boots dragged along the cement ground. Standing in front of him, she made a cautious decision to be a small distance away from him.

The two of them were trapped in each other's presence.

Athrun wondered if she could feel the looming shadow of anxiety that took over his aura.

She was clutching tightly onto her elbows, digging her fingers into the red flannel sleeves. Teeth were clattering and her body continuously shivered. Her back was hunched over and her eyes were averted from him.

Athrun could only stare at her shivering figure.

"Where's your jacket, Cagalli?" he asked gently, leaving the cigarette between his lips. His gaze wandered over her form. She was ridiculously dressed with a red flannel shirt that loosely hung over a deep cut black tank top. She wore torn shorts with stockings underneath. He could see the winds go through her and wrap itself around her blood. It somehow made him colder.

"Go back inside," he said. "It's cold."

"I'm not going back inside," she replies briskly, venom was seeping in her words. "You-you can't just leave me inside for thirty minutes to take a damn smoke!"

Athrun didn't know what to say, but he saw her eyes brimming with unshed tears. His silence beckoned her to speak.

"You ask me out for a coffee date... and then you have the audacity to fuckin' leave? If you lost interest in me, you could have just let me know, instead of... instead of...being a coward and walking out on me!"

Athrun kept his silence.

He had asked her out on a date hours prior... and he hadn't really given a damn if she rejected him or not.

Athrun had expected her to say 'no' and feel the pangs of rejection, but instead she had said 'yes' to him with a shy smile. He succumbed to ecstasy momentarily until he realized he had absolutely nothing to say to her, as for the last two months since University started, his mouth barely opened for words. They only opened for cigarettes.

He took another hit, the fragments of smoke wavered out his mouth. Its whiteness fogged over Cagalli's face, acting like a small veil. It faded out the sadness that ached over her features.

"I know you don't give a shit. I don't even know why I'm even bothering with someone like you..." She looks up at his face for reassurance that her assumption was right. They wander from his eyes, to his cheeks and to his lips.

Athrun's face was expressionless.

She looked away from him again.

He felt the chokehold of guilt.

"Cagalli..."

She was shivering even more. She rubbed her hands and then clutched at her arms, as though she were engaging in a hug with herself. Her open lips became chapped as Athrun heard her ragged breathing.

The diminishing whispers of smoke continued to disillusion her face. The yellow light harshly brought on a sinister radiance but the moon's natural glow fought its way to illuminate the shadows that played on her skin.

The dark and the light made her the perfect balance of unconventional beauty.

Athrun could no longer breathe anymore. But he felt his breath suck in the smoke from the cigarette that rested on his mouth. While taking out the cigarette, bursts of stringy smoke slipped out between his lips, coiling around Cagalli's head.

He noticed that she was closer to him. Her dazed eyes gazed through the smoke and at his lips.

"Don't you look cool, Athrun," she said, her voice was smoother than the smoke that floated amid them.

The cigarette dropped from his grasp.

Leaning over, his tobacco tainted mouth met hers.

He almost flinched at the touch. It was... surprisingly warm.

She didn't kiss him back.

He emancipated the lip lock.

"Athrun, what the hell?!" Her small hands pushed him against the wall. She bit her lip before she said, "I don't understand you!"

He didn't immediately respond. His daring action had numbed him. He glanced down, and saw his cigarette being crushed beneath her grey boots.

"I'm sorry," he said, hearing his voice crack. "I don't understand myself either." He hesitated. "It's just been hard for me...these past few months. I can't get a hang of university... I think I hate everything here. I've stopped caring... about a lot of things."

He refused to look at her. His stare went beyond her shoulders. He didn't want to see her sympathy... he already felt it.

"I think I have a lot of anxiety problems..." he continued. The words felt so strange yet honest. "I'm away from home. I can't fucking speak to anyone. Everyone seems to already know each other. I just stay cooped up in my apartment room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing." The way the words flowed from his mouth somehow made him feel lighter than the cigarettes ever did. "You don't need to pity me – I'm sure my problem is not uncommon."

There was silence.

"Athrun..." She put her hand inside her bag, ruffling the contents inside. "...take this, please."

Cagalli reached for his hand, and placed something cold inside it, folding his fingers over it. He looked down to see what it was.

A sleek red digital camera was lying in his palm. He looked at Cagalli, puzzled.

"If you take pictures of your surroundings, and you examine the image more afterwards, you start to see a lot of beauty. It sounds cheesy. But, if you could find the beauty of where you are, then maybe you'll become happier." Cagalli then smiled at him thoughtfully.

He stared at the device in his hands. He started flipping it over, his thumb brushed over the buttons. "Are you sure you don't need this, Cagalli?"

"I'm sure. You can borrow it until you feel better."

"That's an unusual way of therapy."

"I tried my best."

Athrun smiled at her. "Thank you."

With his free hand, he grabbed a hold of hers. Freezing fingers tightly interlocked.

"Let's continue this date."

A pinkish hue coloured her nose and cheeks.

* * *

His phone vibrates against the glass surface of the coffee table. It rumbles viciously, moving on its own, clearing the dust underneath it.

Athrun lays his camera down on his lap. An arm reaches for the cell phone.

He glances down at the screen.

An unknown number.

His mind starts to spin.

_Cagalli? No – it can't be..._.

His heart heaves against his ribcage.

A thumb hovers over the green 'answer' square on the screen

He taps at it and slowly places the phone to his ear.

"...hello?" he says warily.

"_Wow... I didn't expect you to pick up._"

"Who is this?"

"_Miriallia."_

Athrun's pulse returns to normal. A sigh is released.

"Oh."

"_Who else were you expecting?_"

"No one."

"_Cool, how's everything going?_"

"Just...fine."

"_Have you been on the interwebs lately?"_

Athrun almost wants to laugh at her silly phrasing but a frown tackles his face. "No."

"_Just so you know, before you become an internet phenomenon... I want to write about you on my blog." _

He could tell she is grinning.

"_A.K.A an interview! There are some people who got the whole thing on video. Everyone's wondering who you are._"

He stares at the photo on the camera. Eyes linger at the person beneath the scratches. _Cagalli Yula Aiman. No longer Cagalli._

"I'd rather remain nameless..." he murmurs.

"_Huh?_"

"I'm sorry Miriallia."

Athrun hangs up.


End file.
